


Second Skins

by Hyena_Poison



Series: Bellwether Sons [3]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He said you’d love the jacket, and you guess he’s right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Skins

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads/comments/kudos; it's all very much appreciated!

He said you’d love the jacket, and you guess he’s right, even though it’s too narrow for your shoulders, tight over your chest. Even though the lining on one side is stiff, stained around bullet holes. But fuck if it doesn’t make you feel like one hell of a badass, a contact high from its authenticity. Then you think maybe it’s weird, wearing Rust’s leather like some kind of high-school letterman jacket. Like you’re his fucking date for the prom. It’s almost too hard to believe—Rust, some slick-as-shit undercover outlaw. Sure it’s kind of cool, and you’re kind of drunk, and in the end you decide you don’t give a damn if you look like a jackass. 

Rust tells you things, just a little, about where the jacket and the guns and the red footlocker came from. And between words he drinks whiskey, mouthfuls without a flinch, no hiss of appreciation for its burn. He talks, and it’s like the first fucking time you’ve ever heard him; you get it, what he’s saying, plain without his usual flavor of crazy. It’s a goddamned miracle, this whole no-bullshit thing, like Rust said fuck it, let’s try being normal today. 

You’re thankful for that directness, that blunt refusal to sugar coat what a shit-storm you’re standing in. There’s no reassurance, no obligatory pat on the back and an everything-will-be-alright speech. Because Rust doesn’t feel sorry for you, fucking far from it—the second you open your mouth, try to talk it out, he shuts you down. You guess, with the more you drink, that his imposed separation of work and personal lives—like a razor’s cut, clean, neat, perfectly apart—is maybe a plus. Your choice in women, as Rust points out, is questionable; fun and wild and crazy enough to call the wife of the man they’re fucking. Spiteful. And then there’s fucking Rustin Cohle, crazy without any of the benefits that come with it. You think of Maggie and Lisa and the others, and you think of Rust; not for the first time, you wonder why the fuck you bother with him. 

Quiet, and you drag yourself up and out of your head, watch him drink from the bottle, follow the spilled line of whiskey over his chin, down his throat. An alcohol-loosened thought of what it would taste like against his skin; feel like slapping yourself, because this is why you’re in the weeds, these stupid fucking ideas. You mean it, you really do, that if Maggie gives you another chance, one last try, that you’ll get your shit together and do right by her and the girls. This shit with Rust—what the fuck ever it is, because you manage to skip really thinking about it—it isn’t serious, it doesn’t mean shit. It doesn’t count as anything; just a way to get through all the shit that builds up between them.

It doesn’t mean you stop staring. At his neck, the muscle of his shoulders, his chest moving with each breath. When you feel his eyes, you look up to meet them; they process you, cold and even and you might be another thing pinned to his fucking wall for all the interest he shows. But you’re keyed up, not just from the alcohol; all of this—all the bullshit and dead-ends and sitting up all night just turning things over and over again—all of that, and the pay-off is in your sight. They’d have that motherfucker Ledoux within a week, and it would be done. Things would quiet down at the station, and you’d have time then, all the time to fix things with Maggie. She’d understand, realize she’d made a mistake, hear you out; she’d know you meant it this time, no more whores or drinking and you’d be there for dinner every night, go to PTA meetings or whatever. 

You’re smiling like a goddamn idiot, and Rust watches you push a leather sleeve up. He takes another mouthful from the bottle, stands up smooth like he hadn’t been knocking them back all night. A couple of steps, and you have to look up to see his face as he stands over you, passing the Jameson without a word. You move to stand, but he leans down—hand resting on the chair behind your shoulder, face close enough that you’re tasting the whiskey on his breath. He’s staring off to the side, nobody home, just that blankness left when Rust crawls away into his head. Before he can make up a reason not to, an excuse for escape, before he can remind you this is the exact shit that’s fucked everything up—you turn your mouth to his, use your tongue as a distraction to pull at his shirt, lead him out of his mind with a firm hand on his hip. It’s a heavy second before he decides to join in, and then it’s just the skin beneath your fingers, the taste of booze and cigarettes and Rust for what feels like hours. 

Breathing hard, he pulls away and gives you a look that finds the core of you, fucking sets it on fire. You want to dig your fingers into his skin, drag him down against you and get lost, forget everything until all your problems swing back around with the sun. You shift, reach a hand out and the goddamn lawn chair you’re sitting in creaks and twists; glare at him a little, because the fucking thing would collapse if you tried to get the both of you on it. Rust shrugs your look away, raising his eyebrows for a second as if to say, ‘it is what it is’. Like he’s not responsible for the state of his living-room; like no one in the entire state of Louisiana will sell him actual furniture. 

So you stand instead, giving him enough room to throw off the dress shirt, tug the wife-beater over his head; he pulls the bottle from your hand and waits as you to do the same. You make to toss the jacket on the stupid fucking lawn chair, but Rust snags it from your hands; you’ve never taken him for a sentimental man, and start to ask him if it really fucking matters where you set the thing down. Rust slides the jacket on, and it moves over him like a second skin; and you can’t help but appreciate just how right it looks on him. He seems to read your mind, looks right back at you and smirks. Honest-to-fucking-god smirks. 

You can’t think on it long: “Come on, Marty,” he says and drops his head back, gulps down the last of the whiskey. You’ve never seen him drink, not really, and you think about telling him to slow down, stop. But then this would stop, too; you don’t know what the fuck is going on with him, but you know you fucking want this right now. So you watch the bottle drop to the carpet, and a wave of something clips you through the fog of booze—this is destruction you’re seeing, a slow and inevitable unraveling. And you should feel something, some shame or pity, but it’s all just a rush—you’re watching him burn, and something new is creeping up from those ashes. Something dirty and fractured and deeply human.

Rust’s got this idea that everything is under control, that his life and his job are neatly organized, tightly in his grip. You’re seeing cracks, the little bits that fall through his fingers, and you can’t help but be satisfied. Or justified, you think; it’s some kind of bullshit if his life stays nice and quiet, separated from you and Maggie and the storm surge that’s waterlogging you. It’s true what you said in the bar—he’s a part of this, too. Half the nights you spend away from home, you spend here in his bed or on the floor or in one of those fucking chairs trying to makes sense of grainy photos. Rust sank his fingers in, and you doubt it was with intent, but it’s a chokehold all the same.

Fuck if you can pretend to know what he thinks; you’re not sure what he considers it, never cared enough to ask. A distraction, an opportunity for something different, maybe. You think it’s more proximity than attraction, for fucking sure not affection; you can’t be certain it’s anything he needs—as far as you can tell, Rust exists solely off cigarettes and depressing bullshit. He doesn’t care about the others, that you’re fucking them, just that it blows back on Maggie—a hypocritical blind spot of his. 

And Rust knew, told you he knew, that you’re fucking someone that isn’t him or Maggie from the beginning. If he was a normal fucking person, you think it should bother him a little that you sleep in different beds, share different lives. But Rust, you’ve come to understand, is not a normal fucking person. He’s not possessive, doesn’t make little remarks about the others, doesn’t even ask. His lack of interest bothers you, before you can catch yourself, remind yourself: this is nothing, this doesn’t mean shit, this isn’t something you can care about. This doesn’t mean anything. 

His pants on the floor, he makes for the bed; you’re not too unhappy with the way the jacket moves against his hips, how it rests just above his tailbone. And you try to hate him more, for dragging you into this again, for the lack of sympathy, for pointing out what an overall fuck-up you’ve been. You kick your jeans off, catch up to him at the foot of the mattress. Your grip on his neck isn’t meant to black him out, just to make him understand—frustration, at him and Maggie and how fucking weak this makes you feel—just to drag him against you. Fucking hate him for letting you, for patronizing you in this. Squeeze and feel him trying to swallow, the tension of his shoulders as Rust shuts out the urge to struggle. 

Let go, hear him snatch a breath before you shove him down, let him fall and follow him to the mattress. You press yourself over him, let him take your weight, jerk his head back using a fistful of hair; bite his neck because you want to bruise him, etch violence on his skin. He growls, low and harsh into your ear, twists your nipple between his fingers and laughs at the started sound you make.  
Breathless, all gravel from smoke and booze and you hate that sound because to feel any other way about it would be unwise; shake the grip in his hair until he hisses, drops his hand. 

Yank once more, a warning, before mouthing the junction of his neck and shoulder. Rust grabs for something on the floor; you hear the pop of a cap, feel him lift his hips under you. Don’t offer to help, not with that; it’s like a fucking mystery—Rust doesn’t ask, and you’re not sure if you would even if he did. The lube doesn’t smell; it’s not that cheap fruity shit you’d buy in a gas station bathroom. How much forethought Rust puts into this thing between them, you don’t think about. You don’t want to know where he buys it, you don’t ask for it, don’t offer to get him ready. It’s not a thing you want a VIP look at—the end result is enough for you. 

You grind, working you’re way with tongue and fingers across his chest; Rust twists, hooks a leg over yours and bucks up. Your eyes don’t track the movement, just focus on the aftermath: back against the mattress, Rust over you with the nails of his fingers digging into your chest. Fuck, you’re almost dizzy, but you don’t think you mind because the view is worth it. Skin red from jaw to ribs, bruised like ink below the skin, red and raw where your teeth broke through. He’s grinning again, cocky and arrogant and like a fucking lunatic; and you’ve never seen that on his face before, nothing even close. It’s mercurial, undefined and you’re not sold on how it fits over his bones. 

You’re not sure you don’t like it though, the way it feels against your mouth when he leans down. Different, is all you can manage, different and severe and a complete wilderness. Chaos you think, wonder in this devolution of control straddling your hips. And like acid, cruel and caustic against your thoughts, you wish Maggie would see. You want her to see this, to tell her how you fuck her little confidant. How Rust listens to her when she calls in the night, questions about you and his fucking life. You want her to know that when he hangs up the phone, it’s you he’s climbing into bed with. 

Rust taps your forehead—onetwothree—with a finger, making sure he has your eyes when he raises up on his knees, smears you with lube, drops down and takes you completely. White, all white, and you hear yourself breathless and stuttering, “Fuck,” over and over until it’s just a noise, no meaning. And your hands are digging fresh marks onto his hips, fingers clenching until they ache. Guess he doesn’t mind because Rust moves up and comes down hard, the smack of skin loud in the empty room. The blinds to the sliding doors are half-open, and you don’t fucking care if the neighbors see.  


He grabs your ear, jerks your face back to look at him; fucking stings, sharp through the feeling of him around you. He leans down, resting an elbow on your belly, growls, “Come on, motherfucker,” and rolls his hips. 

Shake your head free, “Fuckin’ asshole!” and he just laughs under his breath and sits up. You pay attention, meet him halfway and can’t feel sorry for how fucking brutal the pace is, feel good in a dark way about the pain you know he’ll feel tomorrow. You want to blame him for all of this, for everything going to shit. You want to wear out that frustration, make him taste your anger in the back of his throat. But the worst of it is slipping away; it’s hard to stay heated with someone who just doesn’t give a fuck—complete neutrality, Rust is, neither ashamed nor proud. 

But fuck, you don’t think about it for long, because he’s riding you hard, making these sounds in the back of his throat you’ve never heard from him before. The leather sticks to the sweat on his skins, and you reach up, grab a lapel and pull at it until Rust knocks your hand away. That fucking smile again, and you wonder what Rust looks like on a bike, if it would be like this—something free and fucking unrecognizable, like Rust was lighter, shaking of years of dust and layers of disuse. His breath hitches with a groan, tenses around you and comes. You yank him down, run your hands up his thighs and run teeth over his lip as you get close. He leans away, nose almost touching yours, sighs, “Fuckin’ good, Marty”. His voice, hoarse and thick, the feel of him pressed on and around you; jerk your hips once, bite his neck as you finish. 

Grip the base of his neck, don’t let him slide off yet. Deep breaths, try to slow it down, and fuck you’re tired, exhausted—from this, from today, from everything. You think it would be nice to sleep, and you’re still buzzed, limp and fighting to keep your eyes wide. Rust’s warm on top of you, and you try to keep him pressed to you, but you’re going limp and he rolls away. You think he’s there beside you, or he left and you’re just too gone to look over and check. Just close your eyes instead, lose shadows in that darkness. 

 

You wake up alone, not surprisingly; he didn’t tell you to leave, because where the fuck else would you go? He’d said you could stay, just until you work something better out. It’s not like Rust has a fucking couch to sleep on, and you sure as shit weren’t sleeping on the floor. Really, neither of you talked about exactly where you’d be resting your head; and to be honest, you’re certain Rust does not have the social graces to even ask. 

Rust must have cleaned you off a little because you’re not a complete mess. But Rust’s got a shower upstairs and you think you’d like to use it anyway; easy the throb of your skull, clear the cotton from your thoughts. The second floor is empty, sterile in its disuses; it’s all white—white doors open to white-walled rooms, white carpet and white tile. You feel like the sounds you make amplify, nothing to catch or quiet the echo. 

You hear music as you come down the stairs; you almost expect to see someone else in the kitchen, another person with Rust. He’s never talked about music, turns it off in the car in favor of silence, tolerates it when he has to. No fucking opinion this way or that, no preference, nothing to personalize him. Fucking blank page. 

Just watch him stick a needle in his arm, little drops of blood, red skin and angry veins. He’ll have to keep his collar up to cover the marks on his neck; but the wife-beater doesn’t hide much, and you catalogue the bruises you’d made with fingers and teeth. He talks, about how this is going to go down, and his voice is monotone and matter-of-fact—no excitement or anxiety or anything you’re feeling at what’s coming next. Off the books, true fucking desperado shit, and you can’t help but enjoy that idea; and no matter how you get there, the end of it is a piece of sick shit in lock-up, another solved case beside your name. And then you’ll catch another case, one that you hope isn’t so fucked; average dead bodies with average evidence—no fucking antlers and Satan shit. 

The needle clinks against the glass, draws up milky irritation, slight resistance as it slides into Rust’s arm. You wonder how many times he’s done this, not with some bullshit concoction, either; you know a little about undercover life, about what they do—and they can do a lot in four years. Rust is silent in his focus, just him and the needle and his blood and whatever it is he’s building himself up to in his mind. He’d said this had put him in the fucking crazy house; he says this is the only way to get to Ledoux. This little part of you, so small you’re not really aware of it, doesn’t want to go through with this, wants this plan to be a drunken bluff.

But you crush it in your fist, let phantom blood run through your fingers, because this is the way it’s going to happen. Rust is going through with it, whether you have his back or not. He’s fucking cagey, more off than usual, and you don’t know what that means. You think about him, about last night and how he wasn’t the same. Rust likes to think he’s above everything, immune to human nature. He likes to think he’s different. But he’s just another fucking junkie, justifying his relapse—this is the only way, he says, and you know that’s not true. It’s the most direct way, cutting through bureaucracy and their fucking red tape. But it’s sure as shit not their only choice. 

You’d like to think Rust isn’t completely sure of his motivations, some ache in his bones that whispers to him. You’d like to, but you don’t, because Rust knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly why. Like any other addict, Rust’s looking for a fix—you think it’s less about the drugs and more about who he was last night. Go back to being someone else, something base and primal, only wants and violence and the clean absence of a conscience. No dead little girls, no marriage falling apart, no past behind him. You wonder why he came back to himself at all. 

He loosens the belt on his arm, throws it and the syringe onto the countertop. When he looks at you, it’s not completely him; something hangs on him, shifting with barely a hint of presence—there, in the line of his shoulders, in each step. 

Rust moves to the living-room, runs a finger over the jacket’s leather where it hangs off the back of a lawn chair. He clears his throat, “You ready?”  
No. You’re not sure; you think you can trust him in this, but who the fuck knows. There’s no backup, no one else, just that motherfucker and you and whoever Rust is going to be. 

“Yeah,” You say.


End file.
